


Nocturne

by krikkiter68



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick Of It
Genre: Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Explicit Sex, F/M, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krikkiter68/pseuds/krikkiter68
Summary: The Doctor, and Clara Oswald, in the TARDIS.  Plus a certain Communications Director, who can't sleep.





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm exhales quietly and gazes up at the star dome in the roof of the Doctor's bedroom. Just as he's suspected, it's right at the top of the TARDIS. Fuck, that spiral staircase, he thinks. 

Fuck me, though, he thinks. What a day. What's Jamie gonna say when I get back? Fuck, I love the guy but he can be a right annoying mother hen at times.

There's a small sigh and a rustle of silk beside him, and he turns his head to see Clara's sleeping form. Her black eyelashes sweeping over her pale cheeks, her dark hair - black, in the starlight - fanning across the pillow. Muzzily, he gently raises his hand, wanting to stroke her face, then stops. No. Don't wake her. She saved me. Let her sleep. She's tiny, and doll-like, but he's seen her steel today. 

She could certainly kick the arse of anyone in DoSAC, he thinks, and grins.

 

"Weak! Fuckin' weak!" Jamie yells.

"Yeah, ye'd know all about that. Twat," Malcolm intones, as he swings open the pantry door. Enraged, he hardly even notices himself wrenching another door open, and it's only when it slams behind him and he looks around that his mind starts caving in. The size of it, and the fuckin' round things, and the stranger with his fuckin' face at the controls, and the sound of the Universe sighing as it takes off.

 

The Doctor's sleeping behind Clara, one long, fine, pale hand resting on the curve of her right hip, his moony eyelids closed, the starlight from the dome above painting moving patterns in his silver hair. So, that's what I look like asleep, he thinks. Not fuckin' bad. His eyelids are heavy. He'd like to drift off to sleep, now, if only the stars weren't whirring above him.

 

"Down! Get down!" Clara yells.

Malcolm's about to say something smart, something really cutting and pertinent, and then he ducks instinctively. A pale blue blast of laser fire narrowly misses his head, destroying one of the pillars of the temple. He grabs her hand and runs, the Doctor running beside them with the same strange, off-centre gait as him. He can't register much, but he's glimpsed these strange, otherworldly beings out of the corner of his nightmares and they look like pepperpots, enormous, fuck-off, deadly pepperpots. He grins as he runs; he'd love to see Ollie piss his kecks at the sight of them. If not for the fact he's very, very scared of them himself.

A zig-zagging run, and finally, the dark blue doors are in view, and then slammed shut behind them, and the Doctor whisks them all to safety.

"Fuck me," Malcolm says, breathless, leaning against the console. The man with his face quirks an eyebrow.

"Language."

Their eyes lock. Malcolm wonders if it's a challenge. Nothing would surprise him today.


	2. Chapter 2

Her face, her smile, oh God - 

Malcolm sighs at the memory, feeling warmth flood his system like a draft of whiskey. He turns his face to the cool side of the pillow, dismayed that he's half-hard again already. Fuck it, this won't help him sleep. He tries to think of something else, something that will tire him out.

The Doctor places a restraining hand on Malcolm's shoulder.

"Don't let them touch you," he murmurs, in a voice that sounds like a very quiet lorry thundering past.

"Why?" Malcolm murmurs back, "What happens if we fuckin' do?"

"We're looking at it," the Doctor intones.

Malcolm gazes out from their hiding place at the rows of blank, expressionless steel faces. Brushed aluminium cyber-pricks, to borrow Hugh's phrase from what feels like a million fucking years ago.

"Like an army of Dan Millers," he muses. 

The Doctor raises his impressive eyebrows.

"Is this Dan Miller a friend of yours?" he murmurs.

"Not exactly," Malcolm says, his back prickling as he sees their leader turn black, empty eyes towards them. "Fuck it, let's get out of here."

 

And there's another run, longer than that bloody run down Whitehall to stop Hugh capsizing the government in his fucking Mail interview. Clara's sprinting ahead of them, and he can't tear his gaze away from her back view, in that dark blue, star-printed skirt. Fuck's sake, he admonishes himself, you're a Communications Director, get a fucking grip on it.

Back in the TARDIS, gasping like his heart's going to burst, leaning back against the console, fighting for breath. A long, pale hand laid across his.

"Don't lean on that," the Doctor warns, "that'll blow a hole through the Galaxy if you're not careful."

He mutters an apology, then stops as Clara smiles at him. Fuck me, he thinks, I'm blushing.


	3. Chapter 3

Her smile, as she arches her back, the Doctor behind her, the heartfelt moan of pleasure from her pretty mouth - 

Malcolm, staring up at the heavens, doesn't know how it happened. Once he'd changed out of his soaking clothes, showered (and fuck him, what a shower), wrapped himself up in a blissfully soft robe of what the Doctor said was Venusian silk, he'd joined them in the Doctor's study.

"It's up to you," the Doctor says, blue-green eyes, his eyes, steady, "but you could join us, tonight. If you like."

Malcolm gasps, nods. Clara's small, pale hand brushes his cheek and she smiles at him, and Christ, he's gone.

Up in their bedroom, up all those fuckin' stairs. He sits on the bed and watches them kiss, the Doctor's fingers slipping Clara's robe off her shoulders. They climb onto the bed, either side of him. Clara takes the lead and kisses him first, her small, full mouth against his. Eventually her lips leave his, to be replaced by the Doctor's. He tastes of starlight. It's amazing, and he moans, appreciatively.

Malcolm shifts across the bed, not wanting to disturb his sleeping companions. His mind flashes forward. It was lovely, all that kissing and touching and stroking, all that canoodling, as the Doctor called it. But it's the way his mind works.

Kneeling up on the bed, looking down as Clara, on all fours, caresses his cock with her mouth, surrounding him with lovely warmth. The Doctor behind her, thrusting hard, long hands splayed on her hips. He feels her moan with pleasure at each thrust, and it's almost too much. It's like watching himself fucking her, and he's hypnotised. He bites into his lower lip, hard, trying to hold on. It's brilliant, and he doesn't want it to end, ever.

His cock twitches as he looks up at the star dome. Fuck, it's like it's got it's own memory. When's he gonna sleep?

Flat on his back, now, Clara straddling him, his cock deep within her as she rides him, moaning non-stop. The Doctor behind her, thrusting slowly, easing her into it, cock pressing against his through her thin wall. She's pinning his wrists to the bed, and he's willingly surrendered. The Doctor pinches her nipples and she screams with pleasure, and God, her mouth as she screams and God, how she ripples around him, and fuck, the Doctor's cock as well, and it's all too much. So hot and wet and so very, very tight, and he watches the two of them for as long as he can before he has to close his eyes and come, hard, crying out.

Fuck the formalities, he thinks, hand moving fast and he hopes silently on his cock, he's got to come again. When he comes, the lights above him shimmer, and a wave of exhaustion hits him. Through half-closed eyes, he sees the lights descend on him, like a blanket made of starlight. Mouthing a thank-you to that wonderful ship, his eyes close and he finally drifts off to sleep.

"Bye Malcolm," the Doctor says the next morning, standing at the controls.

"Take care," Clara says, squeezing his arm. Malcolm smirks at them.

"No fuckin' chance," he says. 

He swaggers out of the box and closes the door behind him. He starts as the ship blurs and the air is filled with noise. Then he opens the pantry door. Jamie's still standing there, hands on hips.

"What are ye lookin' so smug about?" Jamie yells. "An' what's that fuckin' noise?"

Malcolm smiles and straightens his tie. His calm expression annoys Jamie, and he loves it.

"Just the pipes," he says, deadpan. "Come on, ye wee fuck. We've got work tae do."

THE END


End file.
